“Sorry, man. Forgot you’re old and frail.” Ezra cackles as he heads to his table, where Maya is looking over their paper.
I settle back in my seat. I feel a tiny bit mollified, but I’m still stewing over the botched grade.
Ezra whoops loudly and offers Maya a fist bump. “B-plus! Nailed it!”
My jaw drops. “Even Ezra got a better grade than us? All he did was talk about the palatability of shark fin soup!”
No. This cannot stand.
Meanwhile, Quint has pulled out his phone and is scrolling through his photos, as relaxed as can be.
My mind is spinning, and I consider what Mr. Chavez said about my model, my presentation. I can’t fathom what I would change about it. More science? More biology? More talk of local habitats? I did all that.
Didn’t I?
Still, right or wrong, there’s a C watching me from that sticky note, and a B- next to my name. I exhale sharply through my nostrils.
“Quint?” I say. Quietly. Slowly. Staring at that hateful sticky note.
“Yep?” he responds, infuriatingly chipper.
I swallow. Under the table, I dig my fingers into my thighs. A precaution. To keep from throttling him.
“Will you”—I clear my throat—“please redo this project with me?”
For a moment, we’re both still. Statue-still. I can see him from the corner of my eye. He waits until the screen on his phone goes black, and still, there’s silence.
My focus slips along the edge of the table. To his hands, and the phone gripped in them. I’m forced to turn my head. Just enough. Just until I can meet his eye.
He’s staring at me. Utterly without expression.
I hold my breath.
Finally, he drawls, his voice etched with sarcasm, “Tempting offer. But … no.”
“Oh, come on,” I say, swiveling to face him fully. “You have to!”
“I most certainly do not have to.”
“But you heard what Mr. Chavez said! It has to be teamwork.”
He guffaws. “Oh, and now I’m supposed to believe that we’ll be a team?” He shakes his head. “I’m not a masochist. I’ll pass.”
“All right, class,” says Mr. Chavez, clapping his hands to get our attention. “Consider this a free period while I grade these papers.”
The class explodes with joy to know he isn’t going to give some last-minute pop quiz.
Quint’s hand shoots into the air, but he doesn’t wait to be called on. “Can we switch seats?”
Mr. Chavez’s attention darts toward our table, landing ever so briefly on me. “That’s fine, just keep it quiet, okay? I’ve got work to do.”
Quint’s stool scrapes across the linoleum floor. He doesn’t even look at me as he gathers up his stuff. “See you next year,” he says, before going to sit with Ezra.
I snarl as the two of them high-five each other over their project grades.
This can’t be happening. Quint can’t be in charge of my grade, my success, my future!
“Pru? You okay?” says Jude, sliding into Quint’s empty seat.
I turn to him. My insides feel like a thundercloud. “What did you and Caleb get on your report?”
Jude hesitates, before pulling a paper from his school binder. There’s another blue sticky note. Straight As across the board.
I groan with annoyance. Then, realizing how that sounds, I give Jude a begrudging look. “I mean, good for you.”
“Real convincing, Sis.” He glances at the back of Quint’s head. “You really want to try to redo it?”
“Yeah, but Quint refuses. I’ll think of something, though. He can’t keep me from resubmitting my portion of the project, can he?”
“Quint or Mr. Chavez?”
“Both.” I cross my arms, scowling. “Evidently, I didn’t include enough science. So right now, my plan is to science the heck out of this report. I will dream up a Fortuna Beach tourism sector so mired in science, the residents will be given master’s degrees by default.”
“Excellent. That will save me a lot of money on tuition payments.”
Jude pulls out his sketchbook and starts drawing a group of bloodied, war-torn elves. He has no problem relaxing, as he well shouldn’t, with his sticky note full of As.
By the end of the period, Mr. Chavez passes back our papers. Our last, inconsequential homework assignment. For opting to take on the adaptations of an anglerfish, I get an A+. It does nothing to subdue my rage.
As soon as the bell rings, I leave Jude behind as he starts to put away his sketchbook. Quint and Ezra are already halfway out the door. I chase after them. “Wait!” I say, grabbing Quint’s arm.
His … bicep?
Holy cow.
Quint spins back to me. For a moment he’s startled, but his expression quickly cools. “Now you’re just acting desperate.”
I barely hear him. What is under this shirt?
“Prudence?”
Snapping back to reality, I withdraw my hand. Heat rushes into my cheeks.
Quint’s eyes narrow suspiciously.
“Please,” I sputter. “I can’t have a C on my record.”
His lips quirk to one side, like my little problems are hilarious to him. “You make it sound like you’re going to jail. It’s just sophomore biology. You’ll survive.”
“I heard that!” calls Mr. Chavez, who is tidying his desk.
“Mr. Chavez, please!” I say. “Tell him he has to do this with me, or … or say I can do it on my own!”
Mr. Chavez looks up and shrugs.
Gah.
“Look,” I say, turning back to Quint. “I know it’s not the end of the world, but I’ve never gotten a C before. And I worked really hard on that model! You have no idea how much work I’ve put into this project.” My eyes start to water, catching me off-guard. I squeeze them shut, trying to reel back my emotions before I give Quint even more ammunition to attack Workaholic Prudence.
“You’re right,” he says.
I open my eyes, startled.
“I don’t have any idea how hard you worked on that project.” He takes a step back, shrugging. “Because I wasn’t trusted enough to help.”
You weren’t trusted? I want to scream. You didn’t even try!
“Besides,” he adds, “I have more important things to do with my summer.”
I snort. “Like what? Play video games? Go surfing?”
“Yeah,” he says with an ireful laugh. “You know me so well.” He pivots and starts to walk away.
I feel like I’ve run out of options. Helplessness sweeps through me, further igniting my anger. I do not like feeling helpless.
As I stare at Quint’s retreating back, I ball my fists and picture the earth opening up beneath him and swallowing him whole.
“Oh, wait, Mr. Erickson?” calls our teacher.
Quint pauses.
“Almost forgot.” Mr. Chavez riffles through his papers and grabs a folder. “Here’s that extra-credit assignment. Great work here. The photos are really impressive.”
Quint’s face softens and he takes the folder with a smile. “Thanks, Mr. C. Have a good summer.”
I gape, stunned, as Quint leaves the room.
What was that?
I spin on Mr. Chavez. “Hold on. You let him do an extra-credit assignment? But I can’t do something to bring up my grade?”
Mr. Chavez sighs. “He had extenuating circumstances, Prudence.”
“What extenuating circumstances?”
He opens his mouth, but hesitates. Then he shrugs. “Maybe you should try asking your lab partner about it.”
I let out an infuriated roar, then stomp back to the table to gather my things. Jude is watching me, worried, both thumbs locked behind the straps of his backpack. We’re the only students left in the classroom.
“That was a valiant effort,” he says.
“Don’t talk to me,” I mutter back.
Ever accommodating, Jude doesn’t say anything else, just waits while I shove the binder into my bag and grab the street model.
It feels like the universe is playing a practical joke on me.
NINE
The rest of the school day is uneventful. It’s clear that the teachers are as eager for summer vacation as we are, and most of them are phoning in these last obligatory hours. In Spanish class, we spend the whole period watching some cheesy telenovela. In history, we play what Mr. Gruener calls “semi-educational” board games—Risk, Battleship, Settlers of Catan. In English, Ms. Whitefield reads us a bunch of bawdy Shakespearean quotes. There’s a lot of insults and sexual humor, which she has to translate out of the old-fashioned English for us, but by the time the hour is over, my classmates are all cracking up and calling one another things like “thou embossed carbuncle!” and “ye cream-faced loon!”
It’s actually a really fun day. I even manage to forget about the biology debacle for a while.
As we’re leaving our final class, Mrs. Dunn sends us off with goody bags full of gummy bears and fish crackers, like we’re six-year-olds heading out on a picnic. I guess it’s our prize for bothering to come in on the last day.
“Sayonara! Farewell! Adieu!” she sings as she passes the bags out at her door. “Make good choices!”
I find Jude waiting on the front steps of the school. Students are drifting out in waves, electrified with their sudden freedom. The weeks stretch in front of us, full of potential. Sunny beaches, lazy days and Netflix marathons, pool parties and loitering on the boardwalk.
Jude, who had Mrs. Dunn earlier in the day, is munching his way through the plastic baggie of Goldfish. I sit beside him and automatically hand over my snacks, neither of which I find remotely appealing. We sit in companionable silence. It’s one of the things I love most about being a twin. Jude and I can sit together for hours, not speaking a single word, and I can come away from it feeling like we just had the most profound conversation. We don’t do small talk. We don’t need to amuse each other. We can just be.